Look, everyone! Fanart for Chapter Ten, by Lunissa on deviantArt:

lunissa. deviantart art/ You-know-it-now-381470682

Thank you.

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July

–––

Thomas Miller, salesman at one of the largest party-goods shops in London, was being confronted with a situation that no amount of training could have possibly prepared him for: an insane customer.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

"Er... Pardon me, could you repeat that?"

The woman heaved an exasperated sigh. "I said, I want fifty yards of multi-coloured Christmas bunting, one hundred baubles, twenty red, twenty black, twenty white," she ticked off the colours on her fingers, "twenty yellow, and twenty grey, two dozen green streamers, six light, six dark, and two big sacks filled with every kind of fireworks you have. Now go get what I ask for, and don't make me repeat myself again," she finished, irritably tapping her nails on the counter.

Thomas stared at the woman, and saw that she was completely serious. "Madam, you do realise it's summer, yes?"

"Your point?"

Yep, loony.

Unfortunately for him, Thomas was neither a very bright nor an intrinsically polite man. As such, he abruptly burst out laughing. (Sure, he'd have been in big trouble in anyone'd heard that, but anyway it was the slack season and his boss wasn't even in right now and besides, he didn't really like his job all that much, so who cared?) His eyes were shut tight as he laughed, so he couldn't see the way War's eyes sparked. "What," she said, straining herself to the utmost to sound calm, "is so funny?"

Thomas, by now, was leaning on the counter and gasping for breath. "Come on, Madam, you're not serious, are you? No-one buys Christmas stuff in summer, that's absurd! You, heh, you might as well ask for a barrel of snow and a giant pine tree to go with all the rest!"

"We don't need a pine tree, we already have a palm tree," War said through gritted teeth, her nails drawing scratches on the counter's wooden top. "It's more authentic that way, he told me so last week."

"More authentic!" Thomas doubled over again. "What, no chubby rosy angel for your, pffft, palm tree?"

"We already have one of those! And that's none of your business, I can't let him down! Now stop wittering and give me what I want."

('All right, that's enough tosh from her.') "Even if, with your behaviour, I was still inclined to do that, Madam," ('Oh, little man, you are dead.') "we simply do not have Christmas decorations available at this time of year. No-one buys them, so we don't stock them."

"So you have nothing?"

"Well, I suppose we may still have some few leftovers from last year in the storeroom, but -"

She tossed her head in contempt. "I don't want leftovers, you bloody idiot, I want what's on this list!" She shook it in his face, then slammed it down hard in front of him. "This is your last chance! Either find everything exactly as I've ordered it and deliver it to 7 Adam's Row, Mayfair, in under two days, or -"

('Damn you, you hellcat.') "Madam, I cannot help you, and that's final! Besides, even if we were stupid enough to actually waste time and money in buying Christmas goods at this time of year just for you, black and grey baubles, like you seem to want, would be practically impossible to come by, assuming they even exist, and -"

Now War had had enough. With the speed of a striking cat - Thomas had been right, thinking that - she grabbed hold of his shirt and jerked him forward, nearly knocking their foreheads together. "Or you," she hissed, "will be a bloody idiot in ways you can't even begin to imagine. My patience is limited, you grub, very limited, and you've rasped it nearly all away. Now give. Me." She gave him a shake. "What. I. Want."

Then, right then, Thomas did see something in her eyes. He had, finally, a sensible reaction. The only possible one. "Yes ma'am right away ma'am," he said. Then he fainted, and War slapped her forehead and groaned.

–––

Nigel, the caterer's assistant, nearly dropped his pen. "I... Pardon me, sir," he said to the depressed-looking and, frankly, alarmingly thin man in front of him. "You want to order what?"

The man heaved a heavy sigh, and said, his every accent dripping with revulsion, "I want two gallons of creamy pumpkin soup, four overstuffed roast turkeys, the biggest you got, with matching amounts of baked potatoes and gravy, four big Dundee cakes, original recipe, and a dozen bottles of Beau- No, wait, I forget who I'm gonna be dealing with." He wiped his brow. "Make that three bottles of Beaujolais, three bottles of Sauternes, three Cabernet Sauvignon, and three Shiraz. I want prime vintages. And get me a bucket while you're at it: I think I'm about to throw up."

Nigel quickly gave the man a chair. "Now, sir, please, calm down. I'll just have this list..." He took it from the man's hand, and found that the paper was actually slightly damp with sweat. He felt a thrill of honest indignation. It was positively scandalous, the way some people thought it was a good idea to confront an anorexic patient, as this man clearly was, with as much food as possible. Shock therapy, right. The sooner this poor blighter could get out of here, the better. Therefore, Nigel patted him on the shoulder and said, "I'll see to it that everything will be delivered as requested. Where would you like it to go?"

"7 Adam's Row, Mayfair, August 19th, seven p.m. sharp. Charge it to Raven Sable. Oh, and add in some ship's bread and dried herring. I just know they won't let me get away with eating nothing."

"Now, now, sir, a little at a time will save you. That's how it goes."

The man looked up blankly. "Save me from what?"

Ah. Nigel decided to back out. No going up against denial, and it wasn't really his problem anyway. He decided to briefly change the topic, then show the customer out. "Well, well, your friends will have quite a party, eh?"

"Not doing this for friends, plural," the man said as he got up. "Just for one. A lady friend of mine."

And then Nigel really did drop his pen, and his clipboard too. "Good God, sir," he couldn't help exclaiming, "she must be the size of a house!"

The man froze in mid-step. "What?" he asked. "What did you call her?"

"Er... I'm sorry, that was rather impolite of me..."

"Impolite!" The man turned half around, eyes and face stone cold. "That," he said softly, "was not impolite. That was the most outrageous insult on the face of the Earth. And you said that about her? About her?"

Nigel's back hit the counter. "S-sir, I -"

"Deliver the goods," said the man, straightening his jacket. "After that... Well. You'll see. Oh, man, will you ever see. You and your company." He walked out just like that, and Nigel sat down. Now it was his turn to long for a bucket, it seemed.

–––

"Aziraphale, can I stay with you again tonight?"

"Certainly, dear. What's the occasion this time?"

"Well, it's just that I've already tidied up my flat for next month and I want it to stay that way, so..."

"A whole month in advance?"

"Er..."

"And your flat is never the least bit untidy in the first place."

"That -"

"That, Crowley, is the most transparent excuse to stay with me that I have ever heard you use! Really now, you can do better than that!"

"...oh. Oh, so then... You'd rather I leave? All right, I'll... just go find another place to sleep, then..."

"Oh, you old Serpent... You should know by now that such tricks have never worked on me." And Aziraphale held out his arms.

–––

"Did you know that you have incredibly soft sweaters?"

"Oh, yes. And given how you're holding on to me, you know it too," said Aziraphale, with his head on Crowley's shoulder.

"Angel?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Did you trick me, just now?"

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"It worked," said Crowley, and Aziraphale laughed in delight.

–––

"Aziraphale, before you fall asleep..."

"Mmm?"

"It's... I've been wanting to ask you this for a long time now, but..."

"Yes, dear, I'm listening. Please, go on."

"I was wondering, are you... Are you my angel?"

"Are you my demon, dear?"

"Yes."

"Then I say yes, too. Always. My dear, dear boy..."

"...angel."